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Everyone always wanted to know why the cat was named Shoe. Why not? Matt would always reply; blinking at them innocently from behind his (perfect) hair. It was a sentiment he genuinely did hold, but not without occasionally wanting to follow up with a nice, cold fuck off.
Of course, he'd never do such a thing, but why did they always ask? No one ever had the capacity to appreciate the simple hilarity of it: a cat named Shoe, after an article of clothing, yes—but he was a cat, not a shoe. The joke was so plain, yet so absurdly beautiful. If Matt ever got another pet (which he wouldn't), he thought he might name it Sock to continue the theme.
It had always been common knowledge to the (very few) personal confidants that Matt had in his life that he did not like animals. They were disgusting, high-maintenance, and they never reacted to anything they were told—because no matter how many awful things you could say to an animal, all it ever did was just stare back at you with its big, glassy eyes. One more opposite to add to the pile of contrasts between him and Juan Corrida, who had based his entire public image on a bear.
Shoe had been a gift. Matt didn't know who in their right mind thought it a good idea to give as a moving away present a living animal, but, apparently his father did. The old man said he'd originally considered a dog, but that he wasn't sure if Matt would be able to keep one in a small Los Angeles apartment. A cat was quieter, easier to hide. The whole exchange had reeked of apology for the complete and utter lack of support his family had thus far given him on his quest to become an actor, but Matt didn't particularly care for apologies (not when he wasn't manipulating one out of somebody), and he certainly hadn't cared for that one. Familial support didn't matter to casting agents.
But it wasn't for several months that he'd grown to love Shoe. Matt seldom spoke of it, but he had experienced a very distinct pre-fame phase upon his move to California, in which nothing out of the ordinary for a struggling actor had happened—endless dinners of cheap noodles and fast food, no water pressure in the shower, living from (small) paycheck to (even smaller) paycheck.
The most vexing thing about it all was that every time that he was in the final lineup for a part, he'd be turned down for one reason above all else: being 'too handsome'. Matt had never before considered his looks to be a handicap, but apparently it was true. Not even modeling agencies wanted him.
So he'd gotten into the habit of taking out a lot of that frustration on the pet cat he'd never asked for, an unwanted mouth he could barely afford to feed. Nothing physical, of course; Matt wasn't a violent man. Just the usual sort of invective you could yell (without consequence) at any animal.
But one time, it had been different. Shoe hadn't been fed that night, so perhaps that was why what happened had happened. Personally, Matt liked to think of it as a case of Shoe truly understanding his words, like no one ever had before.
Whatever the reason, the result was the same. Whilst he had loudly set a table for one; the usual song and dance of complaining about the failures of everyone around him, Shoe had lept up from the floor (getting cat hair all over the table) and slashed Matt right in the face. Then the cat had promptly turned around, jumped from the table, and sat back down contentedly in his designated corner. Matt hadn't really noticed that aftermath, however, as he'd been too busy rushing to the bathroom mirror to observe the damage.
But at first glance he hadn't noticed anything wrong. His hair (grown long from a lack of being able to afford haircuts) had fallen forward and managed to cover that entire half of his face. The only sign that he'd just been maimed by a cat at all was a thin trickle of blood just edging down below its fringe.
He pushed the hair aside. Visible now were several deep red lines that just barely grazed his eye. A close call, and an impressive injury for a kitten to have inflicted. Matt let it fall back again, and the injury immediately disappeared. It was like an on/off switch, jumping from one extreme to another in a second. Only half of his face mattered now.
But then it hit him, like a swipe in the face (not unlike the one he had just received): he wasn't handsome anymore. The one handicap holding him back no longer existed. As long as he hid his scars (which would inevitably appear) under that wonderful long hair of his, he now had a gimmick; an approach to his own handsomeness that always left something up to the imagination. And it was all thanks to Shoe, who understood more than Matt could have ever hoped.
After that, he'd made it a point to feed Shoe before he fed even himself. Good friends were hard to come by, and Matt Engarde never forgot anyone who could perform for him a valuable service—even if it was just a cat. But having to choose between feeding one of the both of them didn't stay a problem for long. Over the next year, Matt (as expected) experienced a dramatic upswing in fame due to his sudden, demure refusal to show half of his face. Within two, he had everything he'd ever wanted—money, motorcycles, and plenty of people willing to do whatever he said. But he never forgot Shoe. Whatever Matt had, he always guaranteed that Shoe would receive better.
Matt tossed a toy mouse from where he was sitting in his parlor towards Shoe's general direction. It was sad how so many domestic pets lost their natural predatory instincts as time went on. He intended for that never to happen to Shoe.
“Who's a good kitty? Who's the best cat in the entire damn world?”
Anyone who knew the real Matt (the few that there were), scars and all, would be shocked to hear him speak in this sort of gooey, affectionate way without any cameras present. But with Shoe around, it didn't feel fake at all.
As the cat lept up to the table (all surfaces in his home were short enough to be kitty-accessible), Matt scratched him under the chin, cooing despite himself. God, what an amazing creature. Though Matt took pride in the art of maintaining two faces, whenever he was around Shoe it felt as if he truly only had just one.
He checked his watch (well, his phone, really) and realized it was about time he left. His hours spent with Shoe were the best part of any day, but there were other obligations to be taken care of, and the Gatewater awaited. He could wait until after he ruined a life or two until they saw each other again. After all, rivals like Juan Corrida were only there for as long as you let them live—his influence was oh so temporary, really.
A cat's scratch was forever.